


still think i'm going home

by thankyouandyou



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouandyou/pseuds/thankyouandyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Now,” Isaac presses, “I refuse to die in your stupid car without a proper kiss.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	still think i'm going home

**Author's Note:**

> Post series two. Not that it has much to do with the actual plot of the show.

You’ve got an armful of wolf and you’re pulling him to his feet from the gravel. You’ve got a mouthful of his curls and his hands in your hands and you’re waltzing, spinning round, the road wet under your feet and your chests wet where they touch and separate, touch and separate. He’s protesting, he’s twitching, let go, but you use force and pile him inside the car, and he’s told you, he hates those moving boxes- he wants the wind in his hair, see, this stupid wolf, he likes his bike and lifting his hands and closing his eyes, scaring you when you ride behind him. But fuck him, what does he know, and thank god for the moving box right now, your moving box that obeys your touch and will get you out of here, she loves you as much as you love her and that’s why she’ll start now, right now, won’t you, come on baby please.

 

“I love it when you call me that,” he moans, and you startle at the sound of his voice. You hate the devil-may-care grin you find when you look at him, because it’s stained red and it doesn’t suit him, his mouth is made to curl, hide its smiles, make them private.

 

“I never call you that,” you tell him, eyes back on the road, and he laughs, “better start now, now’s your chance.”

 

Your stomach lurches. You want to hurt back, want to tell him something just as awful, or hit him right in the chest where he is cut open, but that’s when she starts purring, coming to life, and you lean forward and kiss the steering wheel, breathe out a thanks that should be silent.

 

You back out of the alleyway, into the street and you step on the gas, knowing you’ll redlight your way to Deaton if you have to, and you have to. You’re muttering under your breath, street names and speed limits and you fucking idiot, you _idiot_ you got shot, and then two fingers find your wrist on the stick, rest there lightly.

 

He’s pulling in horrible wet breaths and he’s tracing your arm all the way to the crook of your elbow.

 

“Isaac,” you say. You don’t know what else to say. What the fuck is left, there used to be so much, how did the tables turn so quickly.

 

He catches your sleeve between his knuckles, tugs a bit. “That thing you did,” he wheezes. Coughs. “Before. Did you mean it?”

 

You turn a sharp left, ignore the swearing and the distant honking and chance a quick glance at him, curled in your passenger seat, hair in his face, clutching your shirt like a child.

 

“Is this really the time, Isaac?”

 

“Did you _mean_ it,” he asks again and there’s iron under the blood on his voice, there’s something hungry that’s been waiting, and you don’t want to think about that now because you’ve seen enough telenovelas to know how this could end, with half a taste and a eulogy.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” you say, “Jesus, yes,” and that’s when his hand drops, lets go, but before you panic, before you completely lose your shit, he’s saying, “do it again.”

 

Your brain’s on fire and your tires are screaming, the wolf next to you has got a wolfsbane bullet in his lung and somehow in the midst of this, you’re laughing, gasping, god god Isaac please don’t die now. Please, for me.

 

The hand is back on your shirt, holding on tight, tighter than before. “I won’t,” he hisses, a promise, and he says it too, “I promise I won’t, do it again.”

 

“We’re almost there, we’re almost there and after Deaton patches you up I’ll do it whenever you want. For as long as you want. You’ll barely have time to breathe, I’ll do it so much.”

 

“ _Now_ ,” Isaac presses, “I refuse to die in your stupid car without a proper kiss.”

 

Your heart stutters in your chest, because you’re almost there, he can’t die now can he, he can’t die here, he wouldn’t dare. There are tears in your eyes and you wipe them away quickly with your wrist, because you need to be able to see, you need to be able to see to save his fucking life, and then Isaac’s fingers are on your jaw, getting wet from the tears catching on your skin, and they’re pulling gently, turning you to him.

 

“Let me go,” you choke out, “do you want us to crash, why’d you hate my car so much.”

 

He says your name, the way he said it in your room, like nothing special, like a breath, like a teenage boy that’s harboured a secret crush for months and can’t believe he’s getting what he wanted.

 

He’s pulling, and you should resist, you should be slapping his hands away but you’re weak and frightened, and death won’t happen to him, it will happen to everyone around him, and that's you. His curls are on your skin now, his lips on your jaw, and if this is it, if this is all you get, you need one more, one more to remember him by, even if it tastes of blood.

 

“I could kill us both,” you say.

 

“Make this an action movie,” he hums into your skin, and then you’re turning around and catching his mouth, biting  him hard with your eyes closed.

 

You’re stepping on the gas, and he’s whining into your mouth like you’re hurting him. You might be. You’re hurting yourself. You want to kiss him deeper. You want to know how long he’s wanted this. You want to learn his taste, taste his smiles, you want to see him wake up on your goddamn floor day after day after day even if you don’t get to fucking touch him again.

 

At the next crossroads, you could be killing you both.

 

You pull away. His eyes stay closed. He’s breathing hard, shaky. He nods, once, like permission.

 

You turn your attention back to the road. Your hands are steadier now, and your tongue tastes like copper. Streetlights are flashing past.

 

“People in cars don’t face each other,” he breathes, and you don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but it doesn’t matter. You turn right.

 

“No,” you tell him. “Keep your eyes on me.”

 


End file.
